


Draw a Circle

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Series: Come Together [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: BDSM, D/s, First Time, Flogging, Love, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-19
Updated: 2009-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the threads binding them to each other become more intricately entangled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draw a Circle

**Author's Note:**

> For [lb_x](http://lb-x.livejournal.com/)'s prompt: bonding.

America, England, and New Zealand come into the foyer when Canada arrives. He tries to cut through their greetings to tell them about Australia, whom he knows will be walking through the door any second—and then there he is, before Canada can say anything.

He doesn't need to: Australia's mood is evident in his body, the tightness of his jaw, the flex and clench of his hands. He doesn't say a word as he goes through to the living room. "What happened?" New Zealand asks when Australia has gone, but Canada doesn't know; he only knows Australia has been like this since mid-morning, and it's gotten worse and worse.

They find him in the armchair, slumped and slouched but still tight. America starts forward, but England says, "I have this." He goes to the chair and crouches beside it, looking up at Australia, who does not meet his eyes. "Do you need a session?" England asks.

Australia barely glances at him. "If that's what you wish," he says, flat inflection betraying nothing.

England lays a hand on Australia's knee, but does not speak yet.

After a moment, he says, "Would you like a whipping boy?"

With a flash and glitter, Australia meets his gaze. His eyes slide to New Zealand.

When he looks back, England gives permission: "Yes."

At that word, anticipation writes itself radiant across New Zealand's face, something more than anticipation suffusing his body. He and Australia fall into step beside each other as they all move to the play room. Catching the look on New Zealand's face, Australia says quietly, "You're gonna lose that grin." A thrill spikes through New Zealand; it makes Australia glitter even more.

At the whipping station, England binds New Zealand's cock and sac safely up and America positions him, knees apart, hands on Canada's shoulders. "Do you want him gagged?" England asks.

New Zealand looks back over his shoulder at Australia, strap in hand. Their eyes meet, but Australia doesn't give a response. They hold in each other's gaze; the others hold just outside it. "Don't hold back," New Zealand whispers.

"No gag," Australia says. Smiles and glitters and glitters.

New Zealand and Canada look into each other's eyes as Australia lays the first lash of the strap across the top of New Zealand's thighs. Again, in the exact same spot; higher now, the strap licking the rounded curve of New Zealand's arse. Again, again, again. Even when New Zealand's eyes glaze, even when he drops his gaze, Canada remains focused on him.

England is focused, too. He is not aware of America moving behind him until he feels the hand at his hip, the breath at his ear; he feels the words as America breathes them: "Look at them. Aren't they beautiful?"

They are.

They fall into a rhythm, blows and arches and cries, and England falls, too, losing himself in their rhythm, in each stroke given, each stroke received, the cries of leather and skin and exquisite pain, more exquisite pleasure. He loses himself in the beauty of it all.

And then America's breath is at his ear again, and it occurs to England that America has been holding him this whole time. "Which of them are you pretending to be?"

The words glaze England's mind, unfocus him from the beauty; refocus him on it, refocus him aware of himself, still lost.

"It's okay," America murmurs, reassurance and assurance, like he knows the answer. And maybe he does, even if England does not. America's hand slides along England's jaw, coaxing England to look back over his shoulder at America's face; England hopes that Australia is still intent on where the strap is meeting New Zealand's flesh, hopes Canada is still intent on New Zealand's face, hopes New Zealand's eyes are still fluttering between Canada's and the darkness behind his own lids. England meets America's eyes, intent on him, and he does not blink. America does not blink either, but he does smile, just at the corner of his mouth.

The sharp rushing sounds of strap-through-air and strap-on-flesh yields to a flurry of other sounds: not cries but movement. America's eyes relinquish England's gaze back to himself, and they both look:

New Zealand is no longer holding onto Canada; his hands are on his own knees, his back not arched but curving as he supports himself, blood welling from not one but two of the marks the strap cut into deep enough to tear.

 _Blood_. That's—that's not—

Canada is around the side; he lets go of Australia's wrist when America and England look.

Australia's hand falls to his side. The tightness is gone, but a new tension flashes across his face before he turns it down. He opens his mouth, but offers neither apology nor explanation, he just breathes.

England doesn't need an explanation. He knows what happened: he took his eyes off Australia. He never should have taken his eyes off Australia, no matter what America's hand suggested. He never should have taken his eyes off Australia, not now, not like this. Australia doesn't just like being watched; he has to be. He likes pushing boundaries, he likes pushing past them, going too far—what he really likes is being stopped from going too far. So it's not a matter of watching Australia because Australia can't be trusted; it's a matter of watching Australia because he trusts England to. And England failed him.

In the silence, England can feel it all unraveling. He shouldn't have entertained America's question, shouldn't have yielded to America's hand and his gaze. He should have been watching, paying attention. That's why they came to him, New Zealand and Australia. They came to him because he could be trusted to pay attention, to do what was right and necessary.

He doesn't know if they can trust him now. He doesn't know if they should; he doesn't know if he can trust himself.

England doesn't know what to do. America must not know, either, because he is quiet and still beside England.

It is all falling apart.

"Please."

The word is so quiet—not soft or gentle, just quiet—that even in the silence, England almost misses it.

"Please," New Zealand says again, no less quietly, not turning, not moving except for his lungs to chase after his breath. "Please," he gathers up the words and offers them in daring supplication, "can he fuck me now?"

Three pairs of eyes are turned on England. He turns to America first, and is startled to find no answers in America's eyes, nothing to hold onto there.

England goes light-headed, his brain in freefall.

He looks at the others. Australia has dropped his eyes again, his hands in the small of his back, and England can tell by the ripples of movement along his arms that he is clenching his fists; England imagines he is tightening around the wrist of the hand that still holds the strap.

Canada looks back at England when England looks at him.

England looks at New Zealand's back again. The curve and rise and fall of it, the darkening marks and the darker lines of blood.

England closes his eyes.

"Yes," he hears himself say, before he turns to leave the room. In his peripheral vision, he sees America's hand coming towards his arm, but he avoids it neatly and continues on his way.

 

Moments later, not long enough and too long, they come in without knocking. America sits beside him, Canada at their feet; Australia and New Zealand, England assumes, are still fucking. "You did really well today," America tells Canada, stroking his hair, winding the curl 'round his finger to give it a fond tug as Canada looks up smiling. "I think you might need a reward." The smile remains on Canada's lips as he lowers his eyes, resting his head along America's thigh, rubbing his cheek lightly against it as America continues to pet him. "What would you like?"

Canada doesn't respond. Not with words, that is: he looks up at America, gazing at America, keeping himself completely open to America's gaze; and America gives it, fills him with that gaze.

That gaze is for Canada, not for England, and England drops his eyes.

"You," England says quietly. He is aware they have turned to him, but he doesn't look back . "He has only ever wanted you."

He knows he should get up now and go, but his limbs are so heavy, his lungs filled with lead rather than air.

When he feels the hand touch his knee, he doesn't look up but he does slide his gaze sidelong to find, with some surprise, that the hand is Canada's. He lets his gaze slide a little more, to see Canada looking at America; he is not quick enough to shift his gaze away when Canada turns to him, and finds himself caught.

He looks at Canada openly as Canada gets to his feet, bent at the waist to keep his hand on England's knee. Then the hand slides away to England's hip as Canada settles himself in England's lap, hands clasped at the small of his back.

"Would you like to fuck him?" America suggests softly. "Fuck his ass, fuck his mouth, fill him up?"

Still looking at Canada, England shakes his head.

After a moment, America says just as softly, "Would you like to fuck me?"

England doesn't look away from Canada as he shakes his head again.

Canada doesn't look away either. Not even to look at America before he says, quietly, oh so quietly, "Do you want me to fuck you?"

Canada doesn't look away from him; England can feel it behind closed eyelids as he nods.

The weight in England's lap is gone. When he opens his eyes several breaths later, he finds that Canada is gone from the room, probably to get whatever he needs to fuck England. Canada is gone, but America is still here. England waits for America to say it, the same thing America has been asking him from the morning after the first night, using different words but always asking the same question: _What do you want, England?_

But America doesn't ask this time. He doesn't say anything. He just sits quietly with England, who doesn't say anything either.

They both look up when Canada re-enters the room, Australia and New Zealand coming in with him; England feels America look up just as he does, and as they sit looking up at the others, England wonders if this is how the boys feel when they look up at America and him. The slow axis tilt the world has been spinning on shifts sharply, and England feels the world go upside down, feels himself flip inside out to contain the upside down within himself.

He slides to the floor, to his knees. Immediately, Canada is on his own knees before England. "You don't have to kneel," Canada says, and so England lies down.

"Can I undress him?" Australia's voice says, and then Canada's voice says, "Yes." England feels hands, one on his hip, one on his belly. Hands undoing his belt buckle, hands unzipping him and coaxing him up, hands sliding his trousers down his legs. Hands on his chest, unbuttoning him. Hands, more than two: New Zealand and Australia stripping him bare.

Hands spreading his legs. A finger touching him. Entering him: America stretching and slicking him. He can hear murmuring, softness without words, soothing. Hands soothing, fingers stroking his face, stroking his arms, his chest, his belly, his thighs. Fingers stroking him inside.

And then the fingers are gone. England opens his eyes; kneeling between his legs, Canada looks into them.

"Don't ask me," England says, his breath choking off the rest of the sentence. _Don't ask me what I want, don't ask me if I want this, don't ask me, don't ask me, don't._

Canada doesn't. He takes his cock in hand and pushes into England, and if the world flipped upside down and inside out before, it is doing something England can't identify now, flipping him and the world so they are both upside down and rightside up and rightside out and inside out all at the same time.

He looks down his body to where Canada is pulling out of him, only to push in again; pull and push and pull and push and.

And England can feel their hands on him, caressing him. He watches their hands. He watches their faces, watches them watching him. He looks at Canada and Canada is looking at him, and England closes his eyes but he's inside out again and he can still see, so his puts his arm up over his eyes as his boys push and pull and caress and coax the axis of the world to spin, spin, spin...

They touch him now with their mouths: mouth to mouth: New Zealand brushes over him with lips and breath, Australia snugs and nudges to flick a tongue inside, America sucks on his air before giving it back anew. Their mouths move down his body while Canada's mouth murmurs encouragement, _yes, yes, yes_ , each yes spinning the kisses a little more, each kiss spinning the world a little more. Canada's cock fucks England inside out and inside out of inside out; New Zealand and Australia and America kiss England's cock, kiss him inside out and inside out and inside out, until he finally spills out of himself through his cock.

They wash away his spillage with their mouths. Canada stays inside England after he orgasms, then tips himself forward, drags the world's axis back to its rightful spin as he slips out of England.

England lets gravity restored draw his arm from his face. He lets them kiss the spillage from his lashes, from the corners of his eyes before he opens them.

Australia and New Zealand meet his eyes, but when his gaze asks theirs to drop, they do. Canada, too, although his gaze slides to America rather than falling.

America meets England steadily in the gaze. England does not return America's smile, but he does let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding; and America smiles more.


End file.
